


Sucker

by up_the_tower_1001



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Bruce Wayne, Alpha Clark Kent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:01:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25906270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/up_the_tower_1001/pseuds/up_the_tower_1001
Summary: He stood in the doorway, paralyzed to the core of his being. The moment he’d carelessly flung open the door, thinking it was Victoria’s, his brain was flooded with the scent of soft and hot. He took in his surroundings through muscle memory alone, noting a small room with a bed and some chests, a bathroom hidden off to the side. And of course, the man inside, sitting on the edge of his motel bed, turned towards Bruce, grey Hanes shirt in his hands, no shoes, black socks.He froze like an idiot, only able to grip the door handle for support and breath in again, deeper this time, making him dizzy with it. Something in his chest tightened, and god, this was so fucked. Because through his blood running hot and southward, stirring desire in his stomach like he’d never felt before, he could register only two things: Mate, and Alpha. And wasn’t that a colossal fuck up. By the look in steel blue eyes, the slight drop of a strong jaw, chances were that the man sitting on the bed was recognizing the exact same things in Bruce.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 165





	Sucker

Bruce had long learned to question his natural senses. They tend to be too persuasive and far too inaccurate. The mind can be easily tricked. All it takes is a flash of light in the eyes, a sleight of hand, an alluring scent, and the mind is coaxed into distraction. When inebriated, drugged, beaten, the same stimulus can be remarkably different. From when he was little, he understood that there was only one truth and many perceptions. His perception is not the truth as it stands, unaltered through time and different accounts. And so he must be careful to analyze, to control and calculate.

Scents were a subject that Alfred trained him extensively in. Hormones and pheromones alter the body in extreme ways, and even before puberty, the time where one becomes more attuned to the genders of those around them, and when most people present, Bruce knew that these things were not as simple as popular media liked to display. Biology, and science in general, he found, was one abnormally after another. 

When he’d presented Alpha, he was relieved, but not surprised. His father was the archetype for strong dominant male, an old perception of Alpha that, while outdated and problematic, was often quite accurate when it came to men like that. And Bruce, growing taller by the day and more intense by the minute, had already begun to fill out with quite the resemblance. His mother was a beta, and while statistically there was every chance that he could have presented omega, he already knew beta was out. At 14, he was far too stubborn, too prone to conflict, terrible at group work. 

His rut was his first awakening into a bigger world. A world in which studying and visualizing an event pales to experiencing something. He’d done everything he could to be ready for when it happened, be a rut or a heat. But when he woke up, sweaty and angry and terribly scared, he understood that there was nothing he could have done to lessen the blow. It was up to him in the moment to not freak out and rip apart his bedroom in ambiguous rage. Control was something that came with experience, that could master any situation, if only he were willful in the moment. 

This was something he tried to remember as he stood in the doorway, paralyzed to the core of his being. The moment he’d carelessly flung open the door, thinking it was Victoria’s, his brain was flooded with the scent of soft and hot. He took in his surroundings through muscle memory alone, noting a small room with a bed and some chests, a bathroom hidden off to the side. And of course, the man inside, sitting on the edge of his motel bed, turned towards Bruce, grey Hanes shirt in his hands, no shoes, black socks. 

He froze like an idiot, only able to grip the door handle for support and breath in again, deeper this time, making him dizzy with it. Something in his chest tightened, and god, this was so fucked. Because through his blood running hot and southward, stirring desire in his stomach like he’d never felt before, he could register only two things: Mate, and  _ Alpha  _ . And wasn’t that a colossal fuck up. By the look in steel blue eyes, the slight drop of a strong jaw, chances were that the man sitting on the bed was recognizing the exact same things in Bruce. 

“Howdy.” He wasn’t normally the type to break the silence, and especially not with a  _ Howdy.  _ That was Bruce Wayne taking over in a moment of panic, not quite so far gone as to recognize that this was  _ bad bad bad.  _ He knew the man sitting in front of him, even with his shirt off, exposing broad shoulders and a chiseled chest, dissolving the assumption of a frumpy body under frumpy clothes. Clark Kent, some small-time reporter for  _ The Daily Planet _ . Really, there was no reason why he should be able to recognize the man, though, with a face like that, he supposed it wasn’t surprising that Clark had stuck in his mind. 

He tried to get his head in order. Tried to focus his eyes on something else besides pecs and arms and a throat tucked under that chin. He tried to get his hand to relax on the doorknob because he was fairly certain it was bending. His only consolation was that Clark looked about the same as Bruce felt. Blue eyes roamed over Bruce's body, hid under a suit and tie, fitted for him of course. What did he see? It made Bruce hold his breath, feeling flush under the observation and the scent and those darkening eyes. Finally, they were dragged upwards only to make Bruce’s lungs expand sharply when they met his own. 

“Hey,” came a raspy reply. Low. Alpha. 

Despite the shock, Bruce was able to recover quickly. He pulled at every brain cell he had trying not to growl at the low timbre of Clark’s voice. He flexed his fingers around the door handle before resting his hand there, more relaxed this time. He slipped back into Bruce Wayne with ease of familiarity. Damage control was the number one priority. For so many reasons. And right now, he couldn’t trust himself to be rational. Already his focus was slipping, down down down to a strong nose, peach lips. He needed to get out with as much vagueness as possible. It was too late to feign ignorance. He’d stood there with a little dribble of droll on his chin for who knows how long. But an open-ended escape. He could do that. And then reassess, replan, figure out what to do. 

So he put on a lazy smile, not bashful, because Bruce Wayne wasn’t bashful, but maybe just a hit of embarrassment. He turned his body away from the man, despite every instinct telling him not to. “You’re not Victoria,” he chuckled.

Clark, for his part, stayed just as calm. No squealing, fluttering, gasping, grabbing, as Bruce had often feared would happen when he met his  _ better half _ . He kept firm eye contact, no doubt unable to look away anyway. Looking away would have been a submission, no matter how small. And if he had, what would Bruce have felt? This unrelenting eye contact had him breathless despite his bored glance. The man kept his composure, though due to shock or self-control, he wasn’t sure. “No. Victoria from  _ The Express  _ ?” His response was steady, if not tense.

“That’s the one.” He might have winked, but he didn’t. Not now. Aiming for airy and sounding flat instead.

“Ah. Next door over.” It was clipped, and Bruce didn’t trust his voice to reply because the other man was  _ jealous  _ and it sent a hot thrill down his spine and up his throat. Up until one minute ago, Bruce already had plans of using the room key the magazine writer had slipped into his breast pocket. Do the deed and sliping away, having some sort of article titled  _ Ten Ways Bruce Wayne is Weird in Bed  _ published by the weekend. In lack of verbal reply, he smiled and nodded, a clear move to leave. The reporter said nothing, did nothing, and let out no other scent to reveal his emotions. Bruce wondered what the other man could smell. Long gone were the days he’d lose control of his scents. A perpetually easy neutral smell floated off Wayne normally, perhaps dipping into seduction or contempt. He’d pulled everything so tight in the moment of shock that there was no way Clark was able to lock into any emotions deeper than those on his face. 

He should have just left. And he did, but not before one last sweep over that perfect form. God, he’d never felt like this before. Is this what it was like to be a teenager? He wouldn’t know. His eyes scorched over hard flat planes of toned arms and abs. Pert nipples made his jaw lock. He only wished Clark could tip that chin ever so slightly to reveal his throat, but if he had, Bruce surely would have lost it. He didn’t look Clark in the eyes. Couldn’t. Instead, he nodded once, a bow almost, though definitely not a bow, and shut the door quietly behind him. 

Had he been breathing this loud before? 

He rushed past Victoria’s room. Vaguely he realized she'd never be his main squeeze again, and he never hers. This motel full of reporters suddenly was a dangerous place to be. Could they see his pupils blown wide, the slight disruption in his pants, the sheen of sweat on his forehead? Did he smell different, look different, walk different? And what if Clark decided to pursue? For all intents and purposes, Bruce was running away, and he knew that Clark’s instincts would be screaming at him to give in to the glorious  _ chase  _ . 

No, this was a very dangerous place to be indeed. 

They were in some small town an hour outside Metropolis. A launch site for a Wayne satellite. It was a big deal to some, and a bigger deal to others, and so for the next two days, the little town would have more people booked into hotels and small houses than they’d ever had before and probably will ever again. Tonight, a banquet held in the main hall, a nice enough venue all things considered, and then the launch. Bruce itched to launch it himself, and he could have done it without making too much of a fuss. People would write it off as the Wayne Jr. wanting to feel important, and that would have been fine. But he decided it was better not to. Just make your appearance, do your job. The people in charge would do. He didn’t make a habit of hiring imbeciles to perform his rocket science. So instead he would be sitting where they told him to sit and idly chatting with those whom the board thought he should chat with. All very casual.

Except now there was a slight little wrinkle in those oh-so casual plans. Even the thought of smelling Clark’s scent lingering around the hall was enough to have him face down on the mattress, body heating up rapidly. He’d seen the other man around, sure. But never in that proximity, never close enough to smell, to claim. 

He thought he’d be prepared. A simple rejection, nothing overdone, keep it cool and calm, never cruel. A simple look into those pretty omega eyes and an apology. It would hurt, he knew. Both of them. But he had no other choice. His life was too complicated. It was just how it had to be. Only, now he was doubting that. He felt light-headed, willing to risk it all if only he got to see Clark in his bed, below him, giving out sounds that meant  _ keep going, don’t stop  _ . 

And that wasn’t even the worse part. The man was an alpha for crying out loud. An alpha mated with another alpha. It wasn’t unheard of but taboo to the extreme. Never one of Bruce’s particular kinks, not that he’d ever really had time for kinks. But now the thought of having that body submit to him, having Clark in his arms, chin up, eyes down. It was intolerable. It made Bruce shutter and cup himself through his pants. He’d not even gotten undressed yet, his clothes smelling faintly of the other man. In the dark, on his bed, rocking slowly into himself. He wondered if Clark ever put that shirt on, or if he’d been struck with desire as well. It was so strong, so crippling. Bruce had to cut off a whine. 

This wasn’t good. He reached for his phone.

“Hello, master Wayne. I trust all is well in Lexington.”

He cleared his throat. “Alfred. I’ve run into a small problem.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve found them.” There was a long pause. Somehow, Alfred knew instantly, though he shouldn’t be surprised. Alfred always knew. Bruce wasn’t sure what the old man was thinking. He’d long been aware of Bruce’s plans when it came to a mate, and he’d long been against them. He was sure Alfred had a mate once. Perhaps they’d died or rejected him, or something of that nature. He’d never shared, and Bruce has never pushed. Bruce swallowed. “He’s….” He squeezed his eyes against the urge to call Clark perfect. “An alpha.”

Alfred, calm as ever, hummed in mild surprise. “Master Wayne, I am happy for you.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Do what, exactly?” Bruce made no response. He felt stupid and slow. Can’t do what? “If I may make a suggestion, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Think about it. It is possible that things are not quite how you imagined them to be-” Bruce scoffed, “-and might be best to ‘reassess’, as you might put it.”

Reassess. Yes, that’s what he was trying to do. Reassess this alpha who he somehow was bonded to, who he planned on being an omega and who was not supposed to make him feel so strongly. Maybe it was best to wait. Not make any decisions yet. It wasn’t delaying, it was taking a step back to make the right choice. But then, what exactly were his choices? To reject, or not to reject? And if he didn’t reject, then what? Reassess again? 

“I should have been prepared.”

Alfred sighed in a way that made Bruce feel 15 instead of 26. “It is impossible to be prepared, Master Wayne. Even for you.”

“Can we talk?” 

He’d been dodging Clark since the beginning of the banquet. A drink in one hand, the other on the lower back of several partners. Dancing from one group to the next, he’d acted like a host in a city that wasn’t his. Reporters attempted to corner him, and he entertained them briefly before drifting away, turning into a gas and escaping their claws. He knew everyone here. It was easy.

But he felt those blue eyes land on him at the beginning of the night and he hadn’t been able to shake them. To shake the feeling he was prey. To shake the instinct of turning towards him, baring his teeth in aggression and sexual frustration. The feeling lingered, but he ignored it with practiced ease. He’d been through far too much training to let something as trivial as finding his mate to distract him from Eric’s daughter’s success in horseback riding or Margret’s new wedding ring, third time’s the charm. 

Clark wasn’t the only one hunting, though. Bruce kept tabs on him through the night. The man never actually made his way towards Bruce with intent, but they kept drifting closer together, perhaps on purpose, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps by other forces altogether, though Bruce didn’t entertain the last idea for more than a second. 

It was only at the end of the party, as guests first began to file out, older men grumpily snapping at their wives, young women grabbing at young men, and several advances on Bruce that he turned down with charm when Clark caught him in the garden. Bruce stood in the dim light, a waxy leave in between his thumb and forefinger, tucked away in a corner of the tall shrubs. He’d heard the other man approaching and did not look up. Then he smelt the other man approaching, and was forced to look up. His heartbeat was already in his throat. Could Clark hear it? 

“Can we talk?” His blue eyes bore into him before flickering away. Not down, but to the side. A nonsubmission, but a lack of aggression. Bruce bit at his cheek. How was it that he already felt his mind drifting, his body harder to control, betraying him for the first time in years. They’d only yet begun. 

“Yes. I suppose I owe you an apology.” He waved his hand in the air. “I understand that having Bruce Wayne charge into your room would be quite a shock.”

Clark frowned, momentarily confused. He obviously wasn’t used to the rich and famous. The denying of hard facts and making casual of the tremendously important. He watched as Clark’s jaw worked, mind probably spinning at how to best attack the situation, and for the first time, Bruce wondered if he was the one who was about to be rejected. A small farmer boy, back straight like someone thrust a pipe up his ass, and that frown! No way he approved of anything said about the Bruce Wayne persona, and an Alpha-Alpha bond to top it off? Bruce cocked his head, leaning into the fear, fighting it, daring it. 

“No, you know what I’m talking about. And I’m not going to tell anyone if that’s what you’re afraid of. I wouldn’t. I just-” He looked down, and so did Bruce, both of them starting at Clark's big hands wringing together. “I just want to talk.”

And the sight of that made Bruce’s decision for him. This huge man, shoulders out but head down, this easy show of vulnerability. It made Bruce’s heart creak. Make it feel old and young and impossibly confused, and he wanted to take those big hands into his own, to smooth over the worry and massage the tension. And it was  _ dangerous _ . It would never work. It hurt to even be near him, and he couldn’t risk a distraction this big. He couldn’t have this weak point, because eventually, someone would find out, and then it would all be over. He couldn’t risk everything for this alpha, despite the temptation. 

So he gave his best sigh. “Alright. Let’s talk then. You, a reporter for  _ World Daily  _ , and me, Bruce Wayne. Both alphas. So enemies in both spheres of life.” He gave a smile that was more of a bearing of white teeth, and he saw the need for Clark to return it clear in the other’s face. He decided to push it, stepping into his space. Clark didn’t back down, but he saw the intent in his eyes. For what, it was hard to tell. He kept his posture casual despite his threatening proximity. “We can talk, but there really isn’t much to talk about. Get where I’m going with this, partner?”

Glorious anger surged into Kent’s face. He could smell it now, just a trace amount, but it was there. Apparently the other had tight control over his scents as well. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t find that attractive. About even in height, the tension between them thickened and curdled in the air. “So that’s how it is, huh? Just like that?” Scorn and disbelief dripped off every word and still, he didn't back down. 

Bruce tilted his head to the side. Just a little, just a tease. And when those hot blue eyes went to his throat, sweeping over the tendons just under his jaw, a snarl ripped out of Bruce just like he knew it would. It was loud and threatening, no other way to interpret it, and Clark’s eyes jumped back to Bruce’s. His pupils were dark and hungry. “I’d rip you apart, Kent,” he muttered.

Clark could have done anything. Snarled right back, attacked him even. Instead, he made Bruce’s stomach drop by lowering his eyes and giving a small, slow shake of his head. The man was chuckling. It was dark, soft puffs through his nose, just the way Bruce would have done it. Knowing the effect made it no less effective, and suddenly Bruce was the one on his heels, prodded with a stick to see what the bear would do. “I just don’t believe that, Bruce Wayne. You’ll find that I’m tougher than you think.” The look through thick eyelashes worked its charm as well, and Bruce was infuriated with himself for getting lost in the grey-blue irises. 

Subconsciously, Bruce’s mouth parted, sensing the air, and he tasted desire, light and wispy, just a sniff. Just a tease. His mouth had gone dry, and he knew he was being drawn in. Imagine being suckered by a big dumb farm boy reporter. Him. Bruce Wayne. Suckered. And yet, there he was, floundering for words which hadn’t been his strong suit to begin with. He wet his lips. “You know, normally I’m the one doing the seducing.”

Clark cracked a smile. “Somehow, I don't think that’s true.”

Reassess! Reassess you big stupid idiot. But here was Clark Kent giving him a smile, small and soft and wicked. Bruce pressed his lips together and looked around. There weren’t many people outside. The air was damp tonight, and it was beginning to get dark. It would be so easy to have the car pull around and dip into the night with this delicious man. Spontaneity was never Bruce’s way. Things were harder to predict, and with something like this, there was no telling what would go wrong. But god he wanted to. “You’ve got me in quite the interesting predicament, Mr.Kent,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the distance, watching from his peripheral vision. 

“How so? It seems pretty simple to me.” There was no breathy vibrato of omegas that he was so used to. Perhaps it was simply the omegas that he hung around. Perhaps it was because Clark was a giant male alpha. 

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think a relationship with you right now would do either of us any good. Quite the opposite in fact.” He turned back to Clark, catching him eyeing the little patch of collar bone where his tie had been loosened and one button undone. It made him lose his train of thought for a moment, body flushing hot. Clark looked back up, having the decency to look embarrassed himself. “But you’re making it very hard to resist.” Bruce’s voice dropped into something more throaty, and its effect was immediate. They were both drunk off each other's scents, that much was clear. Clark’s cheeks were rosy even in the dim lighting, and Bruce feared he was no better. Better to cut things off now. “It’s been fascinating to meet you, Mr.Kent, but-”

“Don’t.” Clark stepped forward, and what the dumb bastard was thinking, stepping deeper into an already aggressive alpha’s space like that, he couldn’t fathom. Bruce couldn’t stop the low rumble that pressed into his throat. His hands flew up to grip Kent’s jacket and Clark’s hands were on his wrists in an instant. They were too close to look at each other, and so they stood there in a stance of aggression, heads bent. If Bruce tilted a fraction, he could have kissed Clark on the cheek. 

“Watch yourself,” Bruce growled, and a deep vibration came rolling back from Kent. 

“I just want to talk,” he grunted, every muscle tense against Bruce. His grip had tightened considerably, strong enough to bruise. The wrist was an inconvenient place to hide bruises, and Bruce cursed him for it, but he didn’t blame Clark. Bruce was having his own control issues. It would be so easy to dip his head into Clark’s neck. From here he could smell him better. It was something grassy and dry. Not clean, but fresh. Aggression came sprinkling out with it as well as spicy desire. He closed his eyes against the sight of muscles straining against the man’s skin. His neck prickled from the hot air from Clark’s mouth. He reeled his own sent in. It was bad enough that Bruce was being so affected. Clark no doubt had less control than him, and so Bruce was responsible for keeping both their heads on their shoulders. It would be easy for things to escalate out of control. 

“Not here. Not now.”

“Alright. My place then. Tonight.” Bruce let out a breath, desperately grappling with slippery lust, screaming to make itself known. A noise from Clark told him he was not entirely successful in hiding. 

“Alright. No-” A growl cut short by Clark. “-No, let’s meet at mine. More secure. Less reporters.”

Clark let out a huff. Bruce couldn’t decide if he wanted to grab Clint’s jaw and thrust it up, exposing the tendons and veins, or pepper him with kisses, letting Clark open up to Bruce on his own. “Less Victorias.”

Bruce smiled. “Less Victorias,” he agreed.

Clark knocked twice. Bruce took a moment to steady himself. He’d only just walked in the door of his room. It was a large room in a small hotel. Normally he’d be put up in a suite, but due to lack of  _ suites  _ in this one-horse town, he’d settled with something smaller. A bed with a small couch and TV and a balcony. The balcony windows were open to let the air circulate. The last thing he needed was to be drowning in Kent's scent. He looked over himself in the mirror. The trip had taken less than 10 minutes, but it was more than enough to gain his composure. Being by himself made him realize just how intoxicating being with Clark was. The other man muddled his mind to a point of danger. This would pass. But in these critical first moments, he needed to be on his game. Learn Clark’s tells, learn what exactly he wants, and not reveal his hand too early. His hand of  _ I desperately want you, but I cannot bear to have you  _ . 

He smoothed over his jacket and then turned to open the door. Standing in the golden hall light was Clark, and whatever Bruce was going to say got lodged in his throat. Soft lighting cast long shadows on Clark’s face, his lashes sweeping delicately over large eyes. His nose held a strong, straight bridge down to a point, and wide lips formed a slight smile. It took Bruce a half-second to go over every detail in his face, and yet he felt like looking for hours, simply to look. And wasn’t that a disturbing thought. 

“Come in.” He pulled himself together through sheer will power. He’d done much harder things than talk to some big brunette bloke. He nodded and stepped aside but not backward. An invitation that caused Clark to compress into himself ever so slightly, squeezing past Bruce’s chest and the door frame. Already playing games. Already succumbing to his instincts. And no doubt Clark noticed, hesitating ever so slightly, a little voice in his hindbrain calling at him to make Bruce move. But he sucked it up with grace, and Bruce mentally chastised himself.

He shut the door behind him and watched carefully as Kent stepped into his space. Nothing so intimate as his real room, thank god. But still covered with his scent, his whiskey, his soaps, and traces of arousal. The man took a couple steps in before swaying slightly. He reached out his hand slightly, brushing his fingertips along a dresser to steady himself, and it looked casual, only Bruce saw through it. So things were as intense for farm man as they were for him. It made him feel a little bit better. Only, not much, because he was supposed to be a highly trained vigilante, and Clark Kent was a reporter. 

He brushed past Clark. “So, shall we sit?” His voice was steady, and Clark nodded, having yet to say a word. And it wasn’t that Bruce wanted him to be overwhelmed or nervous. Only, a little bit nervous was fine because Bruce never concerned himself with even playing fields. After all, at night he went to roughhouse with the big boys, and things were hardly even for him then. 

Clark sat down on the sofa, and Bruce poured them both a glass of something to drink. Some bottle of something the hotel had provided him. It was fairly good. He handed Clark the glass and sat on the other end, exactly one cushion between them. 

Clark nodded. “Thanks,” he said, voice raspy before clearing it. He sat with both feet flat on the floor and back straight, the small glass in his huge hands making him look like a giant in a dwarf house. How tall was he? At least as tall as Bruce. Maybe taller? It was hard to say. In his off-the-rack suit, seemingly ill-fitted on purpose, he fit a specific type of person. Mr.Incredible, a large man who worked a desk job, and he fought the urge to smile. Bruce would have never guessed what was under that jacket and tie.

“So, that talk.”

“Yeah.”

Bruce leaned back on the arm of the sofa, hitching one leg onto the coach. Sprawled out, but only slightly. A posture than an omega might take to invite, or an alpha might take to take up space. Bruce let Clark make his own interpretation. “Alright then, I can start.” Clark’s eyes flickered up to Bruce’s face, eyes narrowed ever so slightly in suspicion. Now that he wasn’t slammed up into Clark’s neck, he could slip back into pretending. Not pretending too hard, because he didn’t want Clark to throw a punch. But enough to hold up the act. “From what I can smell, and tell me if I’m wrong here, cause they make all sorts of perfumes now a day, but you smell like an alpha.”

Clark’s eyebrow raised a hair. “Yeah, that’s right.”

“And you are aware that I’m an alpha as well?”

Clark’s lips quirked. “Yeah, got that part.”

Bruce found himself returning the half-smile for no particular reason. “Well, just thought I would make sure. You didn’t seem like you noticed.”

Clark shrugged. “Just because you're an alpha too doesn’t mean we aren’t still mates.”

And there it was. The big whopper. The grand slam. Sitting across from him was Bruce’s  _ mate  _ , someone he didn’t think he would ever find, and on some nights, hoped that he wouldn’t. Some people just didn’t get lucky with those types of things. Sometimes you just didn’t meet them. Or you meet them too late, or whatever. Life gets in the way, time keeps going, and sometimes you meet them the day before they die or find out they are quite a bit older than you or any of the above that could go wrong. Sometimes all of the above. Bruce tried not to think about it. It was stress he didn’t need. He had a plan, and it was fairly simple. Best to wait it out, come back to it in 20 years. Maybe 30. Who knows how long Gotham will need him. Probably forever. 

But now that he’s failed to act accordingly and instead invited the very thing that might destroy him into his hotel room for drinks, he wasn’t sure where he stood on the whole thing. 

“Yes.”

Clark fiddled with his glass, rolling it between his hands and not drinking any. Bruce doesn’t drink any either. He rarely does. “Are you okay with that?”

Bruce considered the question. It was new to him. Of course, stranger things had happened, and omega-omega porn and erotica were quite popular. However, an alpha-alpha coupling was extremely uncommon because of their aggressive tendencies. Bruce would have had “aggressive tendencies” even if he were a newborn omega, so the added alpha effect tended to be problematic. Stir in another strong, aggressive alpha, and it was lights out for reason and diplomacy. He’d spent years mastering several styles of martial arts as well as the sciences, and the discipline and control taught him how to own his instincts as very few others could. Maybe no one else in the world. And yet this man here was pushing and prodding at those walls and he didn’t even know it. Bruce was surprised he wasn’t panicking more. Self-control was one of the things he valued most, and here was this lumbering alpha jabbing all his buttons. 

But was he okay with it? Yes, he supposed he was. Simply by the fact that he wasn’t panicking, and instead, resisting the urge to press up against the man. It was a unique loss of control. Not a loss at all, but a slight tug at the reigns that Bruce found….thrilling. He found it thrilling and found it embarrassing that he found it thrilling. 

It was a long pause before Bruce spoke. “Yes. I find it amusing.”

If he’d called Victoria Weathers from  _ The Express  _ amusing, she would attack him on sight. If they were in public, make a scene. If they were in private, make a louder scene in hopes that it might become public. Clark just chewed on his lip before replying, “Yeah, I do too actually. Go figure that it’d be...you.”

Bruce chuckled, looking down into the brown drink. He didn’t need an elaboration. 

“So, I guess I’d like to know, and you don’t have to tell me because obviously, it’s probably confidential or something, but I just would like to know if there is a Mrs.Wayne. Or a mistress Wayne.” He cringed. “Or something. Of the likes of that.”

Bruce found the bumbling endearing, damn him. “Depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?”

“Alright. Well, I’m asking you.”

“No Mrs.Wayne, no mistress Wayne.” Clark nodded solemnly, and Bruce didn’t miss the slight sag of his shoulders. “And you?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Bruce nodded, noting a small satisfaction in his chest. This was becoming ridiculous quite quickly. 

“Alright, my turn then.” Clark peered at him, and he was struck with the feeling that Clark was much more observant than he let on. Before officially meeting Kent, he’d seen him around. Not close up and personal, obviously, but from across the room. The man carried himself like he was trying to compress all those shoulders into a size medium. Then the stammering, the nervousness, the lack of eye contact, it was all very confusing. In fact, compared to the subtle way Clark watched him now, eyes flickering over his face, Bruce was reminded somewhat of himself. It was like Clark too wore a sheer cloak over his true form, bending the light just enough to persuade the eye to look at his right hand as he robbed you with the left. “Did you know about the bond before tonight?”

Clark’s eyes widened in surprise. Surprise, one of the easiest emotions to fake and hardest to hide. “No. No, of course not. I would have told you. I would have….done something stupid, probably.” Good. It was a slight suspicion, probably based more on mistrust than actual evidence, but he figured he would ask anyways. No harm in asking, and it was interesting to see how Clark reacted. 

Neither of them spoke, and Bruce let his eyes wander as Clark loosened his tie. The suit held in his boxy frame as if it were more of an oval, and overall was terribly unflattering. Despite being warm in the room, both of them kept their jackets on. He wasn’t sure if it was an alpha thing or a Bruce thing, but he didn’t plan to undress before the other man did first. 

He kept his hair a little long for the professional world, but it was extremely flattering. An old-style haircut, brushing softly behind his ears and down the nape of his neck, making Bruce’s fingers twitch to thread through the ebony strands and give a little pull, just to see what would happen. 

His eyes were eventually drawn back up towards those stormy greys, and he felt his eyebrow twitch upwards, the barest hint of a challenge. Clark smoothed over his tie and to Bruce’s delight, a blush raced up his neck and ears. His fair skin didn’t hide much. There were no blemishes or cuts from his razor. Not even sunspots freckling his nose. Compared to Bruce’s skin, scarred from the sun and the trauma, Clark was a blank canvas. 

“Listen, Mr.Wayne. I want to know what you want from this. It seemed like only a few minutes ago, you were getting ready to-” Bruce didn’t fill in the gap. The look on Clark’s face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed together, it seemed like an unspeakable thing. To reject Clark, to hurt him. He would turn away from the other man in an instant if he could guarantee that Clark wouldn’t get hurt. But that wasn’t an option, and Bruce’s heart clenched at the idea of hurting his mate, someone who he should be there to protect. “I just need to know what you’re thinking. About all of this.”

Bruce hummed. Even so, taking this man in meant he would eventually be harmed. Maybe not by Bruce, but certainly by Batman. And despite his desperate clawing towards the alpha, Gotham still came first. Before Clark Kent, and before Bruce himself. There were people who needed him and people who wanted to kill him, and Clark wouldn’t fit in in his world. His other, far more real world. 

“What I think?” He drummed his fingers along his thigh and watched as Kent’s eyes got caught by the movement. “I think this could only end in disaster. I lead a complicated life, Mr.Kent. And I’m sorry to say, but alpha-on-alpha action seems like a neck waiting to be snapped, and that has never been a turn on for me.”

Clark’s eyes narrowed. His scent trickled out now. Frustration was humid like fresh rain on hot asphalt. It made Bruce’s heart pick up with anticipation. “You can tell me you can’t date right now. You can tell me you already have a lover. But don’t tell me you aren’t interested because it’s painfully clear that’s a lie.” 

Bruce surged forward without warning. Sometimes, when someone just didn’t get the message, Brue found it helpful to scare them just a little. Just to show that he isn’t  _ fucking around  _ . He grabbed onto Clark’s collar, one knee on the couch for support, the other on the ground, giving him leverage and height above Kent. He bared his teeth in a real snarl, threatening and with intent. His eyes locked down on Clark’s, not finding it necessary to go for the throat. It was a threat, not an attack. “You don’t understand-”

Before he could finish, Clark’s foot was sweeping Bruce’s out from under him, and suddenly, off-balance, he was tackled by a 200 pound man. They both tumbled off the sofa and Bruce landed hard on his back, the wind knocked out of him. Clark had fistfuls of Bruce’s jacket in his hands, one knee between Bruce’s thighs. They were both breathing hard, and now Bruce could really smell Clark, and he nearly keened with how good it was. He tried to keep his face neutral, but he doubted he was successful. Clark’s eyes locked on Bruce’s mouth. 

“Who sent you?” Clark’s eyes widened briefly in confusion, and Bruce was furious, barely able to contain himself. He broke Clark’s hold, pushing up to flip them, and though Clark went, the timing was off. A moment of hesitation where Clark held like a brick house before  _ letting  _ Bruce shove him off, landing on his back. The realization only made Bruce angrier. He caught his wrist in a bruising hold with one hand and Clark’s chin with the other. “That little move of yours? And the fact that I just  _ happened  _ to mistake your room for Victoria’s? I don’t make mistakes like that,  _ Mr.Ken _ t,” he spat. Clark’s free hand flew to Bruce’s hip, and his eyes were dark as nightshade. “Who the fuck sent you? I won’t ask again.”

Clark’s eyes closed, visibly trying to pull himself together. Bruce allowed aggression to billow out, clear and sharp. The single taste was stark and an effective tool in intimidation as all other smells were filtered out, sharpening into a knifepoint of anger. It was a stark contrast to Clark’s mixture of emotions in its natural state. Aggression, fear, and desire quickly building in the air. Bruce steeled himself against it, trying to focus. 

“No one, Bruce. No one sent me.” His voice was a little choked from the hand below his chin. 

“You fucking liar.” His voice was deadly calm.

“I swear.” And then, Clark’s hips moved up, just a little, to press against Bruce’s hip. Clark was hard, still below him, desperately trying to control himself with another alpha pressed up against his neck. How was that possible? But it was true. A red flush bloomed over his cheekbones. The hand on his hip tightened and then loosened rhythmically. 

“You’re getting off on this,” he wondered, and felt his own blood rush to his head at the thought. Clark didn’t respond. His eyes squeezed close, concentration clear on his face. Bruce marveled as he pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth.  _ So that’s how it is.  _ Ever so slowly, Bruce began to push Clark’s chin upward. Clark sucked a heavy breath in, his back arching up just a hair, his arm in Bruce’s hand twisting slightly. He was taught as a wire, instincts clear on his face to push back. But then, he gave, and Bruce nearly choked as, inch by inch, a pale throat was revealed to him. Clark let out a small whine before cutting it off quickly, but the sound went straight to Bruce’s groin, and he felt himself getting worked up. 

“I wasn’t sent here, Bruce. I just want-” He got lost somewhere, hips moving up once again on their own accord, and Bruce pushed his own thigh down in experimentation. Clark’s neck strained and jaw clenched, and Bruce released his grip in the strong chin in favor of smoothing his fingertips along his jawbone. He took the moment to trace down his windpipe down to his pulse point. Clark’s hips pushed back up again and a small, embarrassed noise came out. It was the most erotic thing Bruce has ever done, and he was painfully hard in his pants. He found himself wanting to press back into Clark’s thigh for relief.

“You just want what?” He murmured, nails dancing along the tendons. He didn’t go for the hold like he wanted to, wrapping his fingers around and pressing his palm flush to the skin, not hard, but just holding him there in place. Wasn’t worth pushing Clark overboard, not when he already had this glorious submission. Bruce’s head spun with it. He’d never know this to be possible. Below him, Clark’s body heated up like an oven. 

“Just want to get to know you,” Clark finished breathlessly. 

Bruce chuckled and Clark’s eyes came open. He was struck with the depth of them. The crinkled at the corners in a half-smile. “Get to know me, huh?” His eyes flickered from Clark’s face to his throat, unable to decide which to look at. 

“Bruce, I - ah-” He cut himself off with a sigh when Bruce pressed his thumb under the connection of Clark’s jaw before sliding upwards, tracing the edge of his ear. He twisted under him. “I live a complicated life too. But I want to make it work. You’re so - ah! - good at this. I’ve never felt this way.” Bruce would have rolled his eyes, he himself using the exact same phrase countless times before. Only now, he understood. Clark’s body was hypnotic, and despite the obvious power, here he was, under Bruce and ready for the taking. 

Logically, he knew that physicality between partners only tended to muddle things up. He knew he should wait, learn about Clark and his “complicated life” before diving in. But all was lost the moment he’d smelled him. He leaned forward, nosing his way up Clark’s neck, and was rewarded with a strangled moan. Clark started making little circles on Bruce’s thigh and any trace of aggression was wiped out by arousal. Bruce was dizzy with it. “Can I?”

“Yeah. Yes.” Bruce ducked down to the crook of Clark’s neck, breathing softly on the scent glands that lay just below the skin, enticing another sound out of Clark. He breathed in deeply and couldn’t help the sigh of pleasure that escaped him. He rubbed his thumb over the sensitive skin, marking Clark. Making a temporary claim on the tender skin of his neck, sending both of their hormones reeling. It probably wasn't smart.

His hand traveled down to press against Clark’s chest. He kept his nose buried in his shoulder, unable to pull himself away. His fingers ghosted over the buttons, unsure of himself. Undressing the other man seemed like a sure road to trouble. He already knew what lay beneath, but he wanted to see again. He could feel the power under his hands, had felt it when wrestling moments ago. His lips parted and grazed over his neck. He didn’t think about it, he just knew he wanted to do it.

But it was one thing to sniff, and another to prelude a bite. Clark flipped them like Bruce was a feather pillow, and for the second time, Bruce found himself on his back, Clark over him, this time pinning both his arms to the side. His eyes were glazed over, pupils like dark wells in perfectly blue ponds. His hair hung past his ears, shadowing everything around them, forcing Bruce to stare back up into his face. He was caught breathless by the motion. 

“Sorry,” they said at the same time. Clark smiles a bit ruefully, and Bruce sighed. 

“It’s alright,” he murmured lowly. He wouldn’t have bit, and maybe Clark knew, and maybe he didn’t, but Bruce didn’t bother to clarify. 

“Maybe we should, erm, take things slow.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t really know how stuff like this works.”

“Stuff like this?”

“With you. An alpha. It’s making me a little bit…”

“Yeah.” Bruce closed his eyes and then opened them, not able to relax under the strong grip. A grip he knew he wouldn’t be able to break. And that flip was fast. He should have been able to react to it, but it nearly gave him whiplash. He shifted in unease. “Just a reporter, huh?”

Clark’s eyes roamed Bruce’s neck, and he felt the heat of the stare like a physical touch. Grey eyes were clouded over. “What do you mean?” But his grip relaxed and his chin tucked slightly. There were obvious signs, you just needed to know where to look.

“What do you think I mean?”

Clark’s eyes flickered up to meet Bruce’s. He blinked, seeming to remember himself. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, looking rather uncomfortable despite Bruce the one being pinned to the ground. He felt old suspicions rising back towards the surface, and any uncontrollable lust began to break down and dissolve. There was a look in a person’s eyes when they know they’ve been caught. A frantic desire to turn tail and run. It could be subtle, just a flick of the eyes towards the door, a slight retreat back into the body, but Bruce knew it all too well, and Clark was spread open wide for him to read. 

Bruce’s gears started whirring as Clark stayed motionless above him. He’d been trained in combat, that much was clear. To what extent, he was unsure. Was there a chance that Bruce’s link to batman had been discovered, and if so, how much did he know? Was he working on his own or with others? If not Batman, then why go after Bruce Wayne. There was always the money aspect, but his more dangerous enemies already had money. They were after power. Was Clark one of those enemies? No doubt they were mates unless he was underestimating Clark to the extreme. He didn’t think he was; these kinds of things are hard to fake. It takes blood samples from Bruce as well as a chemical engineer rival to himself. There were so many possibilities that Bruce didn’t even know where to start. 

“I took karate as a kid,” Clark finally said. Bruce blinked at him. He was so far past that, the lie was laughable. And he did laugh. And Clark let him go, sitting back, the sour smell of an unrecognizable emotion in the air before he seemed to remember himself, and the smell lessened considerably. 

“What are you after?” He remained on the floor. He didn’t expect the hopeless look on Clark’s face to make his chest clench up. He nearly gasped at the pain. He should have been furious. Raging and out of control. Instead, there was this feeling….this pressure rising to the front of this throat. His chin didn't tremble, but his throat worked against the knot in anguish. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Bruce shook his head. He didn’t care much what Clark was after. It didn’t matter at the moment. He would be damned if he cried over this man he’s known for half a day. 

“Leave me.” 

“It’s not what you think-”

“Clark.” He wouldn’t beg. 

“Okay. I’m...sorry.” 

It was later in the year when Batman met superman. He’d made his introduction on a rooftop. That is, Bruce was brooding over his city on rooftop and Superman floated down from the stars themselves like a small parachute care package made especially for Bruce. Or at least, that was the vision Bruce’s mind conjured up at the sight of the red and blue, all-American hero hovering above him. 

Bruce spared him a single glance and a sniff. There was no scent to the hero just like he would find no scent on Bruce. Even drug store injected scent blockers would do the trick for a couple hours, and Bruce’s supply wasn’t exactly generic. “What are you doing in my city?” growled Batman. He bit his lip at the hesitation, some prepared greeting surely dying on the angel’s tongue. 

“Batman. I’m Superman from Metropolis.”

“You don’t say.”

“Erm.” The poor sod was obviously not warned. Batman, as a rule, was generally unpleasant. It wasn’t that he disliked his hero-folk, only, wait, yes, he did. Among other reasons of course. He tended not to like very many people in general, and a flying slim-jim in a spandex suit didn’t seem exactly like his cup of tea to begin with. 

“Sir, disturbance down at the docks again,” noted Alfred, and Bruce thanked god that he was close. Although, with an actual god floating right next to him, he wasn’t too assured his thanks were received. He launched off the roof, wished briefly that he was able to flip around like Dick could. It would have been a little cool. He swung to the ground, touching lightly before his motorcycle. He should be able to get to the docks in several minutes. Maybe he would have been able to coast there, but he’d be damned if Superman was going to accompany him on a midnight flight. 

Only, the man followed. Not next to him, but from above, hidden by the perpetual mist that hung over the city. He supposed he wasn’t expecting any less. Superman wanted his introduction, so he was going to get one. People like him normally got what they wanted. 

There was indeed a scuffle at the docks. Not something the police wouldn’t be able to handle, and they were on their way by now by Alfred’s account. But there was some investigating he wanted to do. There always was. A couple men stood around talking, several bodies already scattered about. They held a heavyset man by the throat. What about, he wondered. Let’s find out. 

The takedown was easy. Some idiot yelled “It’s the bat!” in a thick New York accent. There’s always one. He’d landed on the shoulders of the first, sending him flying with a rather rough kick. Three thugs, that’s all they were, no real fighting talent. They fired a couple shots at him and even managed to graze his arm, though it did nothing against his suit. He pulled one man into a nose crunching punch and sliced the Achilles of another one who sprinted away with a Batarang. It must have taken him 15 seconds max, and when he looked back to the man they’d been beating up on, he felt a small satisfaction that Superman had been watching. It was no crazy feat, but it was better than getting his ass kicked and having the big guy swoop down to save the day. 

“You wanna tell me who these men work for? And quick, I haven’t got all night.”

Turns out, even the whisper of a threat of a Batarang to the throat gave great results, and his target was more than happy to rat out all the men who were about to toss him into the harbor. Bruce never forgot about the alien though. He could feel his gaze on him from somewhere above.

When the sirens started to wail and  _ Javier  _ began to demand that he help him escape, it was time for him to go. Skittering away to find some pawnshop owner that sounded like an interesting character. He got about two blocks away before the man of steel was flying next to him, giving him this….little wave. Bruce skidded into an alleyway, not wishing for unwanted attention.

He stopped his bike but said nothing. Might as well get it over with, though he would be difficult to the end. 

“Batman. I know you’re busy with….drug busts. But I wanted to talk to you.”

Something about the request tickled his brain. “About what?”

“Well. Um, about. If you ever need anything, I’m in Metropolis.”

“Yes, the whole world is aware of that, though I’m flattered you think so much of my detective skills.”

The man faltered for a moment and Bruce took a better look at him. He was already mentally filling out a file. “Yeah. I guess that’s all I had to say.”

Bruce nodded. “Gotham is my city. You keep to yours and I’ll keep to mine.” It was annoying that Bruce had to look up to him. The alien floated a foot or two off the ground. 

“I….alright.”

And it would have been perfectly fine except that it took about 15 minutes of searching the internet, literally google, before he figured out that Superman was Clark Kent. And then 20 minutes of staring at their faces and wondering how the hell he was the only one to know about this. And then 20 minutes discussing it with Alfred. And then 1 minute to decide that it was for the best that things turned out the way they did. Clark Kent had yet to contact him and Superman seemed more than willing to stay out of Gotham. They would see each other around, no doubt, and be professional to one another, and Bruce could keep an eye on him from afar. To look and keep safe, and not to touch and therefore sully. And everything would be able to go on as normal. 

And then they made the justice league and things got a little bit harder and Bruce found himself getting just a little bit softer. He was eroded by these people, these annoying people he couldn’t stand, but who worked so well together sometimes and who followed his plans. They even gave their own input which Bruce got to shut down without mercy because he’d already thought of every possible plan, and their idea would never work because of X, Y, and Z. It was fun, sometimes. When Wally would say something idiotic and Diana gave her best impression of Bruce’s deadpan. Or when Clark would come by to chat when Bruce was dead tired and looking at a computer screen even though his eyes felt like they were going to drop out of his head. 

Clark did that a lot. He was always around, and Bruce didn’t have it in him most days to fight it. Both men wore scent blockers, so there wasn’t a problem. Clark made good company. The man wasn’t dissuaded by his lack of social grace, and Bruce wasn’t intimidated by Clark’s  _ alienness  _ . 

“Hey B, catch!”

Bruce looked up just in time to catch a small egg. It was the size and shape of a chicken egg, but a soft blue clouded with greys and whites. It looked like the sky. He thumbed it over for a second, mentally sorting through the many bird species and coming up with nothing that he knew of that could produce an egg like this. “What is it?”

But when he looked up, Clint was smiling that crinkled eye smile, lips pressed together in a way that meant he was happy and he knew Bruce would not share the sentiment. “A nickname.”

Bruce huffed and looked away, and oh god, what was this terrible feeling that flew through his chest and up into his head, making him dizzy and giddy. He bit his cheek and starved off a smile, but it was a struggle, and there was little point because Clark could see through him anyways. “I meant the egg, you imbecile.”

Clark did a spin in his spinny chair, and Bruce was tempted to throw the egg at him. “Just a species from Tamerelle. It's good fried.” And it was. Bruce didn’t cook it. Clark served it to him on a plate with white cheese and brown toast, and Bruce rolled his eyes and ate it all without setting it down.

Things were good, or at least, as good as it gets for someone like him. And then there was a run-in with Ivy whom he thought was long out of the business but apparently had just been holed up with Harley Quinn. 

He’d been on his way back from a banquet when Alfred called. The event was for something he couldn’t remember, but he was on the list and needed to make an appearance. So he’d gone and was very prepared to show his face, bounce around a little bit, say hi to the big guys, and then leave early before the winners of the silent auction were announced. And then he’d smelt Clark. 

He knew the other man was there the moment he walked into the grand hall. Lights dazzled from a high ceiling and men and women mingled in long dresses and sharp suits, and he was offered champagne within the first 5 steps. He took hold of the stem and nearly dropped the damn thing when he looked up to find a pair of piercing baby blues on him. Bruce didn’t have to remind himself not to smile at his friend from another world; the instructions were already burned into his brain. He gave the slightest of nods before turning away. 

His little illusion for the past several months was shattered. It was so easy to forget that Clark had no idea who Bruce was. How he’d rejected his mate without saying the actual words, and how painful it must be. Months. It had been months without seeing him, and that one little glance had him muddled. He couldn’t smell him yet, but the sight of him in regular clothes and those damn glasses had him staring off into space for a minute. He was saved by a group of men who wanted to discuss “stocks”. 

But things only got worse through the night. He drank the champagne and then a few more glasses because he was getting anxious. Clark’s smell wafted around and it was infuriatingly subtle. If he was going to smell the other man, then damn it, he wanted to do it proper. He’d tried to catch Clark’s eye, but the man never looked at him. Bruce, annoyed at being ignored, decided that he had nothing to lose, which, of course, was wrong.

“Mr.Kent.” It wasn’t a greeting or asking for a moment, but a demand for attention. Clark was in the middle of a conversation with a younger gentleman from a well-known tire company. 

Bruce didn’t really even mean to say anything. But when he spotted Clark discussing with him, the tall beta, nicely built though not in a threatening way, it clawed at Bruce’s nerves. He wasn’t impulsive. He wasn’t. Yet over and over it was proving not to be completely true. Not when it came to Clark. He was over there in several seconds, hand barely restraining from touching Clark’s lower back in possession. 

The man stopped mid-sentence, the slight narrowing of his eyes in mock confusion acting as a socialite glare. Clark’s brows furrowed in disapproval but his body didn’t lie as he turned towards Bruce, acknowledging him fully. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I need to talk to you about a rather unfortunate article you wrote a week back.” And god, now that he was listening for it, he could hear Superman’s voice clear as day. Bruce resisted the urge to smile at the thought of getting Superman riled up so quickly, and then did smile because he was Bruce Wayne, and there was no reason for him not to. 

“Perhaps in a moment, when I’m finished with my conversation.” 

Bruce waved away the dismissal. “Nonsense.” 

Clark opened his mouth but nothing came out.  _ Nonsense  _ . Not much you could say to that. 

The tire man, possibly picking up on the unusual tension, possibly not wanting to make an enemy out of Wayne, took a step back. “No, it’s alright. We can catch up later, Clark.” He gave a soft, attractive smile, and Clark smiled back in gratitude. It was a ‘ _ what can you do''  _ smile, like a parent dealing with their grumpy, tired child. 

“Thanks, Oliver.”

“Yes, thank you so much,  _ Oliver  _ ,” Bruce drawled. 

The man departed and Bruce watched at Clark’s posture tightened up. “What do you want, Bruce?”

A mockery of the question Bruce asked him months before, though he doubted Clark intended it that way.  _ To talk.  _ “I want to see you.”

Clark’s scent wafted into the air, and Bruce couldn’t help a deeper breath. He’d forgotten. His heart rate picked up.

“Bruce, I-” Clark’s frown deepened. “Are you drunk?”

Bruce scoffed. “Tipsy at best, mother.” Clark shook his head, and Bruce knew he was butchering this.  _ Lose the attitude, Master Wayne  _ , Alfred’s voice scolded in his head. “Listen, Clark. I just wanted to apologize for-”

“Bruce, I’m seeing someone,” Clark blurted. 

For a second, he laughed. It was one of pure surprise, because, no he wasn’t. But then, Bruce hadn’t been keeping up with the Kent side of things, and why should Superman ever mention something so intimate as a relationship when they didn’t even know each other's first names. So maybe Clark  _ was  _ seeing someone. And then the laugh cut off and he found himself standing there, blinking hard. The movies were right. Everything went dark except for them. It was a tunnel vision into Clark’s eyes. For a moment, there was no sound, no time, only that hopeless look in Clark’s eyes that meant he was telling the truth. Bruce couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. His brain froze. There was no analysis of the possible partners he could have, no plans, no reaction at all. Just the sensation of falling falling falling into the depths of his own mind. He couldn’t tell if his heart was hammering in his chest or if he was dead. He licked his lips, heaving his thoughts into action, ripping at his mind to get it to work.  _ Say something, you idiot!  _ “No second chance?” he finally rasped. Clark looked away, and so did Bruce. He couldn’t bear to look at him. He was sorry. He was. But the words were lodged in this throat. 

“I think we both know there’s something wrong with the bond. It wouldn’t work.”

He’d never even kissed the man.  _ I’m batman. You know me, please Clark, please don’t do this to me. You know me.  _ “Alright. Let’s get this over with then.”

A little intake of air. “Here?”

Bruce scanned the crowd without really seeing. “Why not.”

He braced himself for the impact. “Bruce.” Looking back at Clark, all he saw was a tragedy. But Clark didn't even begin to understand. He’d known Bruce Wayne for one night. Bruce had known Clark every other day, hours in the Watchtower, saving his life, working with him. Clark knew Bruce as  _ slightly tipsy at best  _ . 

“Come on, Clark. Oliver is waiting.”

Clark looked him in the eyes. “Bruce. I….don’t want you. I reject you.”

It was a cultural thing, the  _ rejection  _ . But the way it made Bruce’s heart lock and throat close, it might as well have been biological. He sighed and tilted his head up, looking at the ceiling, the soft golden lights coming down like rain. He heard a few around them gasp at the sight, his throat on full display to Clark Kent of the Daily Planet. He leaned into the pain. For 5 seconds, he let it consume him. There was nothing. He was nothing. He was adrift. 

“I think I should go,” Clark stuttered. 

Bruce didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He closed his eyes and rocked back on his heels, wondering for a moment if he was going to pass out. He took a deep breath, wondering if he’d ever smell that sunny hayfield, the pollen and the dirt and the openness that was Clark Kent, again.

For 5 seconds, he sunk into his own feet and was a puddle of black tar on the ground. And then, he opened his eyes and tilted his chin down. Clark was gone, a few people were staring, and Bruce was back in his body again. Time’s up. 

So he’d gotten properly drunk in a way he’d hadn’t let himself in years. Turns out, Bruce pretending to be drunk was quite similar to Bruce actually drunk, which was both a relief and a curse. He’d drifted around, chatting aimlessly, groaning at business discussions and flirting with handsome Beta’s. When his watch let out a little beep, Alfred signaling him to return home, Bruce took a glass of whiskey for the road. He drove. He’d driven on opioids and bullet wounds, so yes, he drove with a glass of whiskey in his hands. He didn’t care about much at the moment. Let him get hit with a semi. At least then he wouldn’t drive himself crazy trying to avoid looking up who Clark Kent was in a relationship with. If he found out, he’d have no choice but to kill them. Or frame them for murder. 

Things got worse when he received a notice from Alfred. 

“Sir, we have a problem. Ivy has taken over Siligate park on the West end. She has several hostages, and the Police are on their way now. However, it is doubtful they will enter the premises.”

The police were extremely cautious of Ivy. They had a few bad run-ins with her. And so had Bruce, for that matter. He cursed. “Have the batmobile meet me. I'll handle it.” He rerouted, sending coordinates to Alfred and pulled out a Nature Valley granola bar and a bottle of water from his console, and tried to will himself into sobriety. 

Batman surveyed the area. He couldn’t see much besides a huge mass of plants covering the park, shielding everything from view. There was a swarm of police barking orders at the leaves. Unsurprisingly, they did nothing. Thunder cracked about them, and rain began to pour down. Jesus. All he’d wanted was one good night’s sleep. But then, he probably wouldn’t have gotten it aways. Not with Clark’s face seared into the back of his eyelids. 

“Alfred, can you get me an aerial view?” 

“Yes, sir.” in his goggles, a satellite picture of the park came up, but it didn’t give him much to go off of. 

He had no idea what Pamala might want. She’d been out of action for a while, and it didn't help that his head was still swimming. He’d need a way to sneak in. He couldn’t beat her with brute force. He wasn’t Superman. 

He debated going down to the Police and inquiring what they had learned, but then thought better of it. Despite being on good terms right now, they weren’t exactly friendly with the Bat. Better not risk it in case things start to hit the fan. 

“Sir, there seems to be a back entrance into the park.”

“Tell me where.”

This “back entrance” was a drainage pipe that ran from a small pond in the park into a lake. It was an uphill climb on all fours through a rushing current. The water was freezing. The suit was waterproof for the most part, and Bruce was thankful he’d ditched the cape a while back, opting for a more fitted design over his older, more bulky suits. But with more mobility came with less coverage, and he was cold, even under the kevlar. The alcohol in his system wasn’t doing him any favors. 

It took 10 long minutes to shimmy his way up and into the park. When he stuck his head out, he was surrounded by dark green light. Huge thick vines twisted over themselves and giant leaves blocked most of the moonlight. He flipped himself over the top rim of the drainage pipe to crouch on it and observe. She’d created a dense jungle, and both the foliage and the leaves acted as a cover for him. 

“Alfred, I’m in.” No response. “Alfred?” Nothing came through the line, not even static. Something about the density of the plants might have cut off the signal. 

Looks like he was on his own then. Swinging himself up into a nearby tree, he looked around. Heat vision wasn’t revealing much. He knew he was on the edge of the park. Ivy would likely be in the middle with the hostages. Something didn’t sit right though. Why take hostages if she wasn’t concerned with the police. Why hole herself up in a place like this after being gone so long? Bruce couldn’t help but feel like this was for him. 

He proceeded deeper into the faux forest, listening for signs of life in the static of raindrops hitting leaves as they dropped from a hidden sky. Eventually, he got to a small structure covered in giant shiny leaves and vines. There were no obvious entryways and no gaps. It looked so tightly wound that Bruce worried about the oxygen flow to the hostages who were no doubt hidden inside. Ivy seemed likely to look over such trivial details. She wasn’t a killer, not like Joker, but she was hard to predict, and her motives and attitudes were constantly changing. She wasn’t a killer a year ago, but what about now? 

There were no signs of Pamala herself, though. It was odd. Was she inside the hut, and if so, why? The woman was bold and aggressive, and it was unlike her to stay hidden. Perhaps she hadn’t expected him to come through this way. Maybe he got lucky, and she was waiting for him by the front entrance, no doubt by now wondering where he was. If that were the case, there was little time for hesitation. But it could also be a trap.

He glided from tree to tree, silently taking in his surroundings and circumnavigating the structure. No movements of tree limbs or vines to give someone away. He slipped once, almost plummeting down towards the Earth. Despite the rain making him harder to detect, it hindered his movements. 

Finding nothing, he knew he had no other choice but to go down and investigate while the darkness and the storm held his cover. Creeping out from the foliage, he raced over to the hut. Nothing stirred, and there were no sounds from the hostages inside. Perhaps there weren’t even hostages. Maybe the Police had gotten it wrong. He looked for an opening, but thick, waxy leaves allowed no peepholes. Taking one last look around, he grasped his blade and began to cut. It wasn’t the right type of weapon to deal with plants. He’d have preferred a machete or a jagged blade, but it worked well enough. He made quick work of the outer layer of leaves, pulling them back to reveal a thick wooden cage. In between thin twisting trees, he saw several teenage boys gagged and tied. At the sight of him, they began to shout and struggle. To get towards him or away from him, Batman wasn’t sure. 

They looked about 15 or so, no doubt simply patrons of the park when Ivy showed up. They were soaked and muddy, hair sticking to their heads and wet jackets clung to their skin. They were all shivering and Bruce sighed. Ivy probably trapped them impulsively. They wore ratty jeans and old sneakers; not the sign of kids worth a lot of money. 

“Don’t worry, you’re safe now.”

When he got hit in the back of the head, Bruce could have laughed. Only, he didn’t have time before he lost consciousness. 

He came back around moments later, his cowl protecting him from a death blow. But he was definitely concussed, the sound of the rain sharpening into a single ring and his vision blurry as he tried to gain his bearings. Blinking rapidly, senses coming back into focus, he saw Harley Quinn herself standing over him with a metal baseball bat. A fucking bat. Who used a bat anymore? And god, how had she even snuck up on him?

“Je-sus Mr.Batman. You don’t look so good.” Her god damn Jersey accent hurt more than the bat. God, he hated Quinn. 

“Harley. Let the hostages go.” From the ground, his threats rarely worked. That didn’t stop him from trying though. He liked to give people fair chances. 

Unfortunately, Harley didn’t let the hostages go. Instead, she reached into her red and black fanny back and pulled out a bedazzled flip phone, pressed a few buttons, and held it up to her ear. “Hey Ivy, he's here. Yeah, he came around the back. No, I’m not sure. I hit him with my bat.” She smacked her gum and winked at him while he struggled to stand up. God, his legs felt like foam and his arms felt like sand. She laughed at whatever Poison Ivy said before hanging up. 

“Harley. You don’t understand what you’re getting involved in. Ivy -” he closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. “Ivy is using you.”

Harley sighed in mock disappointment. “Aw, Batsy, don't you know? That old stuff don’t work on me no more, not like it used to. Ivy, she’s been real good for me.”

Bruce lunged. If he could overpower Harley before Ivy got there, he’d have leverage over the powerful being. He could out mauver Ivy if he just knew what she wanted. 

And then he got hit with the bat  _ again  _ , this time in the arm. It cracked and flung out awkwardly, and he knew it was broken before he felt the pain. White-hot sensation flooded his brain, shooting up his wrist to his elbow and exploding at his shoulder. His arm jutted out strangely at the elbow, and his shoulder was dislodged from the socket. He gasped in pain, cupped the arm tenderly while Harley shrieked in horror and fascination.

“That’s no regular bat.” 

“No Sir! It’s a real neat vibranium one! Ivy gave it to me for my birthday! I’ve been waiting to try it out. Pretty cool, huh?” She twirled it only to bonk herself in the head. Bruce shuddered, trying to get a hold of the pain. 

“Alfred?” He tried again. There was nothing. Damn it, he needed back up. 

“Harley, what the heck did you do to him?” Bruce grit his teeth and looked up. Floating down on a giant palm leaf, Ivy stood in all her glory. Her skin stood a light green, her hair swirling red around an angular face. She was beautiful and deadly and powerful. Her scent was one of flowers, sweet and alpha. 

“Ivy,” he cursed, trying once again to stand on wobbly legs. 

“Batman.” She nodded and lowered herself to the ground before walking to join Harley.

“Do the thing, Ivy!”

Batman had no time to react before vines assaulted him, ripping apart his kevlar. And no, that shouldn’t be possible. His suit was strong enough to resist her plants. It shouldn’t be giving away so easily. But his brain couldn’t come up with an explanation as a thick weed wrapped itself around Bruce’s arm without mercy, tearing away the uniform. He couldn’t help but scream at the pain, the bones scraping across every nerve in his arm, lighting up his open eyes, blinding him. Excruciating but quick, and then she was going for his mask. 

She’s never gone for his mask before. Whatever their conflict was, there had always been respect on both ends. She’s never gone for his mask, and he’d never been cruel. Perhaps it was simply being old enemies. Sometimes, though, things change. 

“Ivy, no!” 

“Oh, batman. You know I hate to do this,” she whined, even as wooden tendons snaked up his neck, forcing his jaw up and ripping into the fabric. “It’s just, things have changed now, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

“Damn it, Ivy! Not in front of the boys!” He was bound and helpless, and all he had nothing to bargain with. But somehow, it worked, and the cage with the hostages was covered once more before his cowl was torn from his face. 

So he was right. This wasn’t about any hostages. It had all been bait for him. And now they had him, tied and proven useless in half a minute, two swings of a bat. He tried to bow his head, but vines wrapped around his neck and face, pulling to attention. Harley Quinn doubled over with laughter. Bruce closed his eyes. How had things happened so quickly? What had he been thinking? His head spun outwards and downwards. The pain was slipping through his fingers. His eyelids grew heavy. 

Then Pamala was by his ear. “Stay with us, Wayne,” she murmured. He winced at his name. So they recognized him. Of course they did.

“What do you want,” he choked, rain now pounding on his bare form, only protected by an undershirt and boxers. He was already soaked to the bone. 

“We have a little proposition, Batman. And to tell you the truth, we had a lot bigger plans. We just didn’t know you’d be this easy to catch.”

“Had a rough night.”

Ivy hummed and stroked a hand through his hair. He tried to pull away and couldn’t, and wanted to cry because of it. Fuck, his arm hurt. “I know. But I’ve had a rough year. Real rough. And you can stop it.”

Bruce tried to shake his head before remembering he couldn’t. He didn’t make deals with criminals. She knew that already. Even helpless and bound and exposed. “I can’t.”

“You haven’t even heard the proposition.”

“Ivy, I don’t use my power for evil. You can’t-”

“Bats, hold on now. Don’t get ahead of yourself. Just listen, yeah? Can you do that?”

Harley tapped his knee with the bat. “If not, we have ways to convince you to.”

Bruce tried to open his eyes, but the rain poured down into them with his head at this angle. He couldn’t even see. Hearing was the only thing he  _ could  _ do, so might as well put it to use. “Alright.”

“Alright. I’ll get right into it. Harley and I, well, we’re mates.” This was news to Bruce. Big news. He’d long known that Harley ditched the Joker, but to find her mate in Ivy? It was...well, it was unfortunate for Bruce, that’s for sure. He wasn't sure what reaction they saw in him. With his head lolled back and eyes closed, he doubted he even twitched. “The feds have been after us for a long time, Bats. A long time. And we, well I know it’s hard to believe what with Harley just hitting the shit out of you with a bat-” Harley giggled. “-But we want out of the game, but we can’t live normal lives with these people always up our ass about real names and social security numbers.”

“Yeah, like, I don’t even know what that is,” muttered Quinn.

“We need you to get them off our tail. I know you can. Just so we can get ourselves set up.”

Bruce laughed as thunder bellowed, and he saw flashes of lightning from behind his eyelids. “You think I believe that for a second, Ivy? You hurt people. You are a criminal. You don’t deserve a clean slate.”

“I deserve a chance at happiness. I was made into this!” Her voice rose, and vines tightened around him like a hand squeezing a toy. “You think I would have chosen this life? Bats, we haven’t been around! We’ve been trying! We’re asking for a second chance. Harley and I, we’re in love! I know you’re supposed to be cold and hard and unfeeling and all that, but Bats, I’m looking at your face right now. I know you’re human too. Please, you’ve got to help us. A second chance, that’s it.”

A second chance. That’s all he was asking for. But what good would it have done? He would have used it up just the same as the first one. He couldn’t change. Clark was better without him. Clark was better with this person he was seeing, or the next person he would date, or anyone in the world besides Bruce. Their bond was  _ deformed  _ , isn’t that what Clark said? Deformed and ugly and scared, just like Bruce. Perhaps the other man could see it, even in their first meeting. 

Rejected. He’d been rejected, and now he was sitting in a puddle of mud, his arm shattered to pieces and his head spinning around in circles, and suddenly he wasn’t Batman anymore. He wasn’t Bruce Wayne, he wasn’t anything. 

“Is he…”

“I don’t know. Bats?”

But he couldn’t catch his breath. Everything was too much. The pain, both physical and emotional, it was too much. His body was dripping wet lead, his insides dry, hot sand. 

“Bat’s get it together!”

“Ivy, we don’t have much time. They pigs called the big guy over, and I really don’t wanna be on the other end of those eyes.”

“I know, I know! Batman! Bruce!” Someone slapped him, and he was emerging from icy water, gasping for breath. His eyes flew open to see the two women on the ground with him. 

“The fuck is wrong with you?” cursed Quinn. 

Ivy looked into his eyes. What did she see that made her shake her head? “Oh, Bats.”

Something beeped, and Quinn looked down at her watch. “We gotta go.”

Ivy nodded, and the vines came back. Bruce hadn’t realized they were gone. “We made our case. You have a week. You know what happens if you don’t, Wayne.” He didn’t respond, and the redhead brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Take care of yourself, hun.”

And then they vanished, and he was left kneeling in his underclothes, bound by plants, trying to steady his breathing. His body started shivering in the cold and wet. He looked around for his weapons, but they’d grabbed all his gear. Even his mask. He supposed he should be thankful. There was no evidence tying Bruce to Batman. 

In his left ear, his earpiece was still attached. Might as well try. “Alfred?” his voice cracked.

“No, but close.” Bruce looked up. Clark looked down. Superman looked down. It was too dark to see the other man’s face. Bruce’s breath caught. Everything was happening too fast. “Mr.Wayne?” Bruce clenched his fists. He was Bruce Wayne. He was Batman. He needed to pull himself together, and so that’s what he did because there was no other choice. 

“In the hut. They are in the hut.” But Clark was flying down towards him, slowly as if he wasn’t sure what he was seeing was real. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he growled in frustration. “The hostages are in the hut, and they have been for hours. The risk of hypothermia is high right now. You need to get them to safety!”

Clark hesitated. Bruce wondered if his voice gave him away. Batman’s voice telling him to save the innocents instead of himself. But Clark did as he was told, easily tearing away the plants to reveal the shivering boys. Bruce turned his face away, but it didn’t matter, they weren’t looking at him anyway. They were crying, all of them, and Clark flew all three of them out at once, two in one arm and one in the other, all of them hanging on with shivering bodies and blue fingers. It was long minutes before Clark came back. Long minutes that gave Bruce time to think of a story. He’d been kidnapped and had no idea how he’d gotten here. It was the best he could do. Long enough to pull his thoughts back from teetering on the edge of a cliff of anxiety which dropped into panic with one wrong step. Clark would be back for him, and he would be okay. 

Clark came back, weaving easily through the trees to Bruce. “Bruce Wayne?”

“Present.”

Clark hesitated before pulling away rigid vines. Bruce faces straight ahead. Clark’s smelled like nothing. He’d even had time to put on Scene neutralizer. Perks of super speed. “Are you hurt?” he asked, right as he yanked at a particularly tight vine on Bruce’s wrist. He’d gasped, unable to stay upright, and Clark caught him on the other shoulder. 

“You could say that,” he grunted through gritted teeth. Superman looked at him, into his eyes, and Bruce saw the connection forming. It was something small and prickly, but it was forming nonetheless, and Bruce didn’t try to stop it. He couldn’t. He was too tired, and his brain hurt because damn it, he was concussed, and his arm burned and throbbed with every heartbeat. The man looked back at his arm, giving him a free x-ray. He already knew what Clark would see. 

Clark pulled off his cape and swung it over Bruce to shield him from the rain. Bruce scoffed, because damn it, that was hardly fair. “Think I’m alright, but thanks.” He made a move to shrug it off, but Clark put both his hands on his shoulders, impossibly light on the injured one. 

“You’re shivering, Mr. Wayne.” Bruce looked down at his body. His poor undershirt was practically see-through and his boxers weren’t doing much to hide. And well well, look at that. He  _ was  _ shivering. Uncontrollably, violently shivering. 

“Huh,” he muttered. Clark began to pull the rest of the vines off, slower this time, and Bruce tried not to lean into the warmth. 

“Mr.Wayne, I was told Batman was here. Have you seen him?” Bruce watched Clark from the corner of his eye. Watched Clark watch him from the corner of  _ his  _ eye. 

“Batman? No, can’t say that I did.”

“The young men I just rescued said they’d seen him.”

“Might want to ask them then, right? But then, I’m no detective.”

Clark looked at him again, and Bruce regretted the last jibe. So this was it. It was all coming to a close. Maybe he would take a vacation to someplace warm. For now, though, he avoided Clark’s eyes and tried to stand up on wobbly legs. Superman put a hand under Bruce’s arm, and he couldn’t tell how much he was standing and how much the hero was lifting him. 

“B.” There was that look. “Tell me it’s not….”

Bruce smiled weakly. 

Clark turned away, needing a second to compose himself. But without the support, Bruce’s legs crumpled, and, well, there was the answer to that question. On his way down, he wondered what the cape was made of. It had certainly been through a lot, and yet, it was as red and shiny as ever. Maybe he would bring his black cape back into business, and get it made by the same person who made Clark’s. 

Clark caught him, of course. Bruce hadn’t even put an arm out to stop the fall. He found himself embracing the man, arms slung uselessly over broad shoulders, nose in the crook of his neck. His entire body was limp and tense at once. “Thank you,” he murmured. 

“Let me fly you home.” The request made his chest ache. Bruce knew a goodbye when he heard one. This was it. 

“Alright.”

  
  


He didn’t remember much of the trip. He didn’t normally enjoy being flown around, pressed up against Clark like a little baby, and Clark the crane. However, he didn’t mind it so much this time around. Maybe it was because he was thinking about other things, like trying not to die. Most of the trip was passed in darkness, his body finally passing out. When he came back around, Alfred was standing in front of him at the doorway looking rather distressed. He could smell uncharacteristic fear envelope them, and he reached out for the beta, even now, instincts pressing him to comfort. 

“Alfred.” His eyes slipped closed for a second.

“Hello, Master Wayne. Superman.”

“Alfred,” he croaked again. “I’m alright.”

“He’s suffering from hypothermia. We need to get him warm.”

“Yes.” Alfred opened the door to let them both in. Bruce tried to activate his legs rather than hanging weakly off the alpha’s arm. His whole body was shaking still, and his muscles screamed at the movements. 

“I’m alright,” he repeated. His feet couldn’t quite keep up with the brisk pace Clark and Alfred were setting though, and he stumbled. He was too tired to even be embarrassed about it. Then Clark was scooping him up into his arms, and Bruce groaned in pain as his arm twisted slightly. “I said I’m fine,” he grunted, eyes swimming before him. They were going upstairs, most likely to the bath and to his room. He shuddered. This wasn’t how he wanted Clark to see his room for the first time.

Warm breath in his ear murmured, “It’s alright, B. Just, let me take care of you.” Bruce tried to retort, the urge to mutter something unhelpful pressing against his teeth. But he must have passed out again, and when he came to, Alfred was gently stripping him. He was laying on his bed now with Clark standing to the side, looking at him. 

When their eyes met, Bruce looked away. He struggled to help Alfred, but his coordination was lackluster, to say the least. He was still shaking, and as soon as he was out of his wet clothes, a mountain of covers were piled on top of him. 

“Do you have any heated blankets?” Clark asked Alfred. The man shook his head. 

“Unfortunately, Master Wayne doesn’t take to such comforts in life as heated blankets.”

Clark sighed. “Of course he doesn’t.”

Bruce closed his eyes. He was safe and humiliated. He curled into a fetal position.  _ Get warm you son of a bitch.  _

“Sir, if you will, may I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah. Yeah of course.”

“Sir, perhaps it would help if, until warm, Mater Wayne was lent some body heat.”

“Oh.”

Bruce’s consciousness surged to the surface.  _ I’m fine, Alfred! Now isn’t the time for a game of Butler Wingman.  _ But the thought of Clark, warm and in bed with him, kept his mouth shut and eyes closed. It took him a second to remember that Clark had rejected him. Formally. “It’s okay,” he croaked. “You don’t have to.”

“I will go make some warm soup,” Alfred said, inconspicuous as always. Bruce heard the soft click of the door, and then it was so quiet, Bruce wondered if he was actually alone. The only sound was Bruce’s ragged, choppy breath. 

“Bruce, I-” He cracked his eyes open to watch the man. He was looking down at his hands, twisting them together in the same motion that he’d had all those nights ago in the garden. “I would like to. If you’ll let me.”

Bruce licked hip lips. It was a handout. A pity gesture after seeing Bruce so pathetic.  _ Just take it.  _ Dick’s voice echoed in his skull, annoyed at having to offer lunch three times in a row when it was already made. Bruce’s stomach was empty and Dick was holding out a ham and cheese sandwich on a plate just under his nose.  _ Jesus, Bruce. Just take it.  _ Trying for words but his voice caught, he settled for nodding mutely. 

He closed his eyes again so he wouldn’t have to watch Clark undress. It was terribly awkward at first, Clark sliding into the covers without the top half of his suit but not actually touching Bruce. Bruce made no movement. Clark hesitated before sliding over to the other side so that Bruce’s back was towards him and spooning him from behind. 

Clark was hot as an oven, and Bruce sighed. “Never been the little spoon before,” he admitted through clenched teeth.

Clark huffed out a small breath. “Today’s your lucky day.”

Alfred didn’t take long with the soup, but by then Bruce’s body had calmed down, hands only slightly trembling. He didn’t have the motor control to wield a spoon yet, but he’d be damned if they were going to feed him like an infant. So he guzzled the liquid from the bowl. It was warm and salty and sweet and he groaned with pleasure. Warmth, his old friend. It had been much too long. 

He slept again, this time drifting off rather than shoved into darkness. 

His whole body was stiff and unmovable when he awoke. His arm was swollen and horribly bruised, and his joints creaked like the Tin Man. His shoulder burned, and he dreaded the idea of setting it in place. 

He was warm though, down to his bones. A huge, muscular arm wrapped around his chest, under his injured arm, and pressed them together. Hot breaths fanned on the back of Bruce’s neck, and the realization that superman was in his bed, clinging onto him like an octopus and half an inch away from his neck had him fighting not the squirm. 

From his breathing pattern, Bruce knew Clark was awake, and something about the knowledge made his heart stutter. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing. But something must have tipped off Clark that he was up because the arm tightened around him. He could feel a large chest on his back, and Clark’s nose traced up Bruce’s spine. 

He gasped at the motion, his blood already stirring. He parted his lips, but the scent blockers were still working strong, and he couldn’t smell a thing. 

Clark, however, was not experiencing the same. “I can finally smell you,” he groaned. It was quiet, even in the silent room. Said just behind his ear in a half-whisper, raspy and dark. “I’ve never smelt you like this. You’re always so controlled.” Bruce tensed, realizing he was presenting on full display. A growl ripped out of Clark when he pulled back his scent in a surprised reaction. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard before, and adrenaline shot through his system. Low and right on his neck, Bruce froze. It was full alpha, and  _ possessive  _ . He was fully awake now, taking in every detail.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” rushed Clark, cutting off the growl. But his nose stayed tucked in Bruce’s nape, arm secure around him. He wasn’t backing off, and it made Bruce’s eyes flutter open, the heat in his groin taking him by surprise. Clark’s breath sped up slightly, and he knew the other man could smell his reaction.

“I need to wrap my arm.”

“Okay.” Clark pulled away, but the drag of his palm across Bruce’s stomach was no accident, and he felt a noise of his own bubbling up. He could feel Clark’s eyes on him as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His body was shot. Fucking vibrianium. He spared a glance at his arm and it was not so bad as he thought. The cold had stopped the immediate swelling, his blood barely pumping in the state he was in. Now, though, it was big and angry and fragile with bumps jutting out of the skin where they shouldn’t be. He could hear Clark’s internal struggle of wanting to offer help and knowing it wouldn’t be received. 

Bruce sighed. “Alfred can set my arm, but he won’t be able to do my shoulder.” 

“Okay,” Clark said carefully. 

Bruce tried not to snap. “If you would be so kind.”

Clark knew what to do, the injury common enough in their line of work. Bruce didn’t make a sound as he felt the joint thrust back into place. Only grit his teeth against the familiar feeling. Clark’s hands smoothed the purple skin before Bruce shrugged him off in favor of getting out of bed to put some clothes on. He threw off the covers and padded to his dresser, taking his time in stepping into boxers and sweats. Was Clark watching him? Did he want him to be? 

When he turned back around, he found that the other man was watching him quite openly. His feverish eyes trailed Bruce’s body. His fingers clenched in the covers and his whole chest was flushed red with what had to be arousal, though Bruce couldn’t see it. “Clark, you’re in a rut.” He said it before he’d even realized the truth himself.

Clark stopped breathing. “I-I know. I’m sorry, I should have told you. I just-I’ve never  _ smelt  _ you before, not like this. And you were so…” Clark’s mind failed him and his hands rose to make a little wavy gesture before realizing it was wholly ineffective and letting them drop to his sides. 

Bruce eyed him. Clark was in a rut in his bed, and Bruce should have been itching to claw his throat out. He wasn’t sure if it was the lack of pheromones put out or simply because Clark’s hair was tousled and sticking up, pillow marks creasing his chin, wide lips pulled in slightly. He wanted this man. Wished he could have him. And Clark wanted Bruce back, there was no doubt. But things between them weren’t that simple. Brue ignored the urge to look down at the cotton shirt in his hand, thumb tracing along the stitching. “So, you should be getting back then?”

Clark closed his eyes and his first tightened back up in the sheets. “Yeah.” Bruce nodded slowly. And then Clark was out of his bed, still in the ridiculous bottom half of his costume, everything about his posture tense, and Bruce tensed as well. “Just, let me see your arm get wrapped. I just need to see it.” Clark’s face heated red, but the vulnerable eyes didn’t stop Bruce from scowling. 

“Clark, you did your part, saved the day. But I think I’m capable of taking it from here. I don’t need you to-”

“I know, I know,” Clark whined, and it was a whine, high pitched and needy, and Bruce snapped his mouth closed because that’s the second noise he’s never heard Clark make. “I know, Bruce. You’re the most capable person I know. I think, it’s just, I don’t think I could leave without making sure you’re okay,” he rushed, and if Bruce thought his face was red before…

Bruce’s fingers twitched at his destress. He wanted to smooth those black curls back and reassure Clark that he was alright. “Fine. At least put on some normal clothes,” he muttered, tossing him a shirt and an old pair of pajama pants. 

Alfred raised an old, thick eyebrow at the sight of Clark accompanying Bruce down the stairs and into the kitchen, but he said nothing besides a polite greeting and an offer of breakfast and coffee. 

“Good morning, Alfred.”

“Master Wayne. I trust you’re feeling better?” Bruce caught onto the edge of the question, a slight, flirtatious flip to the end, and Bruce wasn’t sure he liked what he knew Alfred was implying. 

“Yes,” he muttered. 

Clark cleared his throat, and it was painfully obvious that he knew he shouldn’t but couldn’t help himself. “His arm, Alfred, sir. I think it needs to be, erm, wrapped.” He finished lamely and started hovering inches off the ground. Bruce raised an eyebrow and Clark looked down before dropping to the floor. 

He cleared his throat. It was unnerving to see an alpha in a rut and not be able to smell a thing. He wondered how far along he was. Turning back to Alfred he nodded in affirmation and held up his arm. 

Alfred knew what he was doing well enough, and soon a splint was made and Bruce’s arm was covered in white cloth. He popped some light painkillers because it was beginning to throb quite badly. All the while, Clark hung around, fidgeting enough to drive Bruce crazy. 

“You aren’t normally like this,” he grunted as Clark clasped hands unclasped his hands on the table for the fifth time in a minute. They were waiting for breakfast in the small kitchen table, wooden and scrapped up from past times. It was more intimate than the dining room, but it brought him comfort to see Clark sitting here. Something settled in his chest.

“Yeah. Well. You know.” Unclasp.

Bruce did know. He despised his rut. It made him stupid and aggressive. Bruce sat back and watched openly. 

“Bruce. We should talk.”

Bruce snorted and chose to ignore the spike in his blood as his name flowed from the other’s lips. “So far, all our talks have yet to end up well.”

Clark, for his part, held strong. He was used to Batman, after all. Bruce Wayne, the morning after near-death and arm snapped in half, was hardly as intimidating. “I didn’t.” He shook his head. “You’re Batman. I didn’t know that.”

“Not many do.”

“I thought you didn’t want to see me after….that night. I was trying to think of a way when I met, well, when I met you. As Batman.” Bruce stayed quiet, so Clark charged on, hands scratching his head and then weaving back into his other hands and then adjusting his suit and then back to his hair. “I really liked you. Working together in the league and everything. And I had this crazy thought that maybe you liked me too, a little. And you as Bruce Wayne didn’t seem to like me at all, and so-”

“Wait.” Bruce cut him off, already knowing where this was going. He laughed and shook his head because that was impossible. But Clark was still here, making sure his arm was wrapped and staying for breakfast. “You can’t be serious.”

Clark grinned sheepishly. “I know. I’m a bit of a sucker for you, it turns out. Even when I’m trying to see other people, of course, I end up just trying to date a different version of you.”

Bruce looked away. “Things like this don’t normally happen to me.” Things like Batman being the man that Clark had referred to. Being jealous of  _ himself  _ .

“Bruce, last night -”

“No, I’m not talking about last night. In fact, that was business as usual.” He traced over the small lines in the paper towels Alfred had given them as napkins. “You’re just. I never thought I would find you. Or-” Bruce sucked on his teeth for a moment, trying to swallow his pride. It felt important that Clark should know. “Or that I would feel this strongly towards you. You’ve caught me by surprise, Kent.”

Clark stood up, and for a second, Bruce thought he was going to be kissed. Isn’t this the scene where they both fall passionately into each other's arms? Clark didn’t smash his mouth into Bruce’s, thank god. There was only so much a man could take in 24 hours. But he was smiling that full-faced smile, and it might have been just as bad as a kiss. 

“Oh god,” Bruce clipped, but Clark made no attempt to reign it in. 

“Sorry. It just sounded like you like-like me.”

Bruce was saved a response when Alfred came in to serve them breakfast. The smell of eggs with fruit and bacon couldn’t draw his attention away from the alpha, but he managed a nod. 

“Thank you, Alfred,” Clark said, seating himself back down. 

“Of course, Mr.Kent.” Clark’s eyebrows shot up in the air, but Bruce didn’t offer an explanation that his butler was also his right-hand man. Instead, he dug into the meal with fever. 

Clark gave him a side-eyed look before digging in as well, and even though Bruce was busted up and Clark was an alien who didn’t technically need to eat at all, he felt something prickle his neck and tingle his fingertips at the sight of Clark eating in his home.  _ Providing  _ , whispered outdated stereotypes. Bruce didn’t think about it too hard. 

“Your scent blockers are wearing off,” noted Bruce. There was that whisper in the air, pulling him towards the other man, so subtle it was more of a feeling than anything else, but Bruce was perfectly in tune with his body. He was keenly aware of all it’s biological tricks. Aware, but not immune. 

“Oh,” Clark spluttered with a mouth full of bananas. He ducked his head to swallow. “Sorry. I can….” Bruce tilted his head to watch Clark search for a way around the obvious response. Trying to figure out if Bruce was simply commenting, or if he was saying something more. Clark could leave. He wasn’t really supposed to stay for breakfast anyways, but Alfred, ever the charitable host, offered to make him a plate. Both of them knew he should have said no, and yet. 

The pause was too long and a hot red blush was quickly spreading over Clark’s already flushed skin. Bruce normally didn’t mind, but he felt a little guilty when Clark looked up at him with wide eyes, bright with a mixture of emotions. “You know I really like you.”

Probably not the smartest thing to say. Bruce’s defenses flew up behind his eyes, red lights blaring and sirens screaming. “I know you are in a rut.”

“Bruce.”

“I know you made yourself very clear last night.”

“I know, but that was-”

“And I know you haven’t retracted it yet.”  _ Oh  _ . That shut Clark up, and Bruce sat there, eyes blazing and fingers drumming slowly on the table. A rejection was formal. Even though many traditional practices have fallen out of fashion in the last few decades, rejections have held steady. Perhaps because they didn’t happen very often, so when necessary, they were brutally effective.  _ A prick in the heart  _ , an old poet once wrote.  _ A prick in the heart, a prick in my ass  _ . It was more of a full shred of every bone, muscle, and organ. “‘I don’t want you, Bruce’,” he recalled. “Count me impressed, Clark. I wouldn’t have thought you had it in you.”

“You marked me when we first met. Do you remember?” Bruce blinked at the change in subject before nodding slowly. Clark pulled his suit aside anyways, exposing his lower neck, gliding a thumb over his scent glands. “You marked me here, and then I thought you were going to bite me, and, well. It stayed for 3 days. For 3 days I had to walk about with you lingering on my skin.” Clark rubbed at the back of his neck like he was tracing the memory. “It was driving me crazy knowing that I didn’t get a chance to do you too. And it was stupid because I knew it was just a possessive alpha thing. I didn’t even know you. But then, with the league and everything, and all those meetings and fights and time I spent with you.” Clark looked up through his lashes, brushing away his fringe that had fallen into his eyes. “I’ve never wanted someone as bad as I’ve wanted you. And it’s not just because you smell like vanilla and honey and it makes me stupid. I really like you, Bruce. And last night, you were looking at me like you hated me, and I panicked, and I’m sorry. But, god, Bruce, I. I just really like you,” he finished, trailing off. 

Bruce felt a blush rise up around his ear, and he fought it off with vengeance. He didn’t smile, he didn’t turn away. Instead, he took a steadying breath and braced his hands on his thighs, blunt nails denting the skin. Clark’s aroma was already becoming stronger. “You’re pretty eloquent for a man entering his rut,” Bruce grunted, but Clark wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to Bruce’s throat as he raised his chin with effort, exposing himself to Clark. His heart rate picked up dramatically at the sight of the other alpha locked in. It was not entirely unpleasant. Not entirely. He only got about halfway but it was good enough “You can now. If you want.” 

Clark stayed still, eyes bright with desire. He could practically hear the thoughts in the other man’s head, wondering if it was some kind of test. Bruce closed his eyes and tried to relax. It only made it worse though, not being able to see a possible threat, so he opened them again, chin dropping slightly before he forced it back up. “Can’t stay like this forever.”

“Okay. Okay,” whispered Clark, seemingly more for himself than Bruce. Slowly, as if not to scare him away, Clark reached over. Bruce watched the hand approach, but that was too much, so he watched Clark’s eyes instead. Watched them darken as his fingertips finally made contact and Bruce inhaled sharply. They skimmed right under the jaw before making their way down. Bruce pulled his cotton t-shirt to the side, and Clark bit his lip with concentration. It was agonizing, and Bruce could hardly breathe, his body was so tense. 

He didn’t expect the gentle press of Clark’s thumb into his neck to be so….arousing. It shot flairs down his body, his skin lighting up just under the surface. He made a breathy, embarrassing sigh, losing himself in it for just a second. Clark echoed the sigh, content with stroking the little patch of skin, sizzles of heat racing along Bruce’s body. 

Clark pulled away, and Bruce ran a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, dispersing the phantom touch that lingered. Clark put his hands in his lap, squeezing his fingers together so hard it looked painful. The slightly spicy arousal of Clark’s rut was beginning to creep into the air. “How long has it been? Since your last rut.”

Clark chewed his lip. “2 years. Maybe 3.” 

“Before you took on the cape?”

“Yeah. A bit before. And. You?”

“4. They tend to come at inconvenient times, so I avoid them.”

Clark ducked his head in a dizzying smile. “Justice can’t wait, can it?”

“No. It cannot.” 

Clark’s face heated up and he hid his face in his hands. “I’m afraid that I’m about at the point where I am going to say some rather embarrassing things.” He took a breath, lowering his hands so that one covered his mouth. His eyes were deeply troubled. “If you want me to leave, Bruce. I can-'' He sighed deeply. 

Bruce’s mouth twitched upwards. The ever-suffering Superman. “I would like you to stay, Clark. Though I worry about the effectiveness and team dynamic of the league after this.”

Clark’s smile broke through again, and Bruce swore he needed blinders. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you have the most lovely sense of humor, or if you are truly as dry as they come.” 

Bruce did a one-shoulder shrug. “Are you going to lose control and ravish me then?”

Clark chewed his lip and tried to figure out if Bruce was joking. Bruce wasn’t sure himself. He didn’t normally find himself in situations where he didn’t already know the most likely outcome. Lately, he was finding Clark annoyingly unpredictable. 

“I-” He laughed a little. When Bruce didn’t join in, he sombered. “I want to do whatever you want to do. I can control myself.” He swallowed. “What do you want?”

Bruce tapped his pointer finger on the table. “I want a lot of things, Clark.”

“Anything,” whispered Clark, the alpha seemingly in a trace for a moment. The eye contact became unbearable, and Bruce had to look away only to see Clark rub his forehead in his peripheral. “Sorry. Embarrassing things, I warned you.”

“Yes. I didn’t think it would be embarrassing for me as well,” Bruce mused and was relieved when Clark chuckled. 

“Embarrassing for everyone.”

Bruce cocked his head. “Anything, huh.” Clark glanced back up at him before looking away, nodding silently. The little admission instead of a joking retort pooled in Bruce’s groin. He plucked at his shirt. “Clark, I should-” He chewed at his cheek slightly. Neither persona he’d crafted, be Bruce Wayne Billionaire nor the Dark Knight, had any misgivings about handing hard news. Wayne was a businessman and one that had his times of ruthlessness. As for Batman, the Justice League could attest to a high degree of disagreeableness. No stranger to conflict, one would think Bruce was better at apologizing. But here he was, in his own home, all the cards in his hand, and he was cutting himself off before he even began. Perhaps it was because he’d not found many people worthy of an honest apology. Perhaps it was because he had few people in his life close enough to him whom he’d felt like it wouldn’t be used against him. A vulnerability turned into a weakness. 

Clark eyed him with wariness. The man was beautiful. Not for the first time, Bruce was struck with something lighter than desire, settling his in his chest. The urge to tuck dark black curls behind Clark’s ears, to cup the back of a strong neck. He laughed, then, a bit uncomfortable at the thought. At the sudden sway of his feelings from seductive to fondness. Affection that penetrated past flawless skin and a classic bone structure. 

Clark turned away, and Bruce realized he had been staring. “I can go,” murmured Clark, misreading his silence. Bruce’s uninjured hand shot out, gripping a titanium forearm. 

“No,” he chuckled. “No, stay. I’m sorry, I was just. I got lost in thought.” Clark nodded with uncertainty and settled back in his chair. “I just need to apologize for my behavior towards you. I don’t-” Bruce shook his head, thinking back on the past few months. Clark's mouth parted slightly in surprise. “I don’t know what I was thinking. My initial analysis of the situation was that you would be hurt, physically, by my relation to Batman. It inspired a fear in me, but even when I learned of your full identity, that intense emotional reaction did not dissipate. So, I continued with my initial course of action, which was to keep you at a distance. I should have reevaluated, taking into account not just my emotions, but yours as well, and the overall shifting circumstances. I failed to do so, and in result, wasted everyone’s time.” He shook his head and drummed his fingers on the table. “For this, I’m sorry.”

Clark’s eyebrows furrowed slightly, and to Bruce’s surprise, the corners of his lips curled up slightly. “Might as well be at headquarters right now. I feel fully debriefed.”

Bruce swallowed, the joke prodding something prickly in him. “I...it’s an apology, not a debriefing.”

“I know-”

“Would you prefer tears and flowers?”

“No, no Bruce. It’s-you don’t have anything to apologize for. We both acted stupidly. It’s fine.”

Bruce shrugged. “Still.” 

Clark smiled softly, kind enough to accept the apology. “Thank you. And forgiven, obviously.” Through the air wafted something warm and affectionate. Bruce wrinkled his nose at it. 

“Are you even trying to restrain yourself?”

Clark grinned. “Not really, no.” And then, perhaps to prove how little restraint he had, or simply to provoke, Clark reached over in a stroke of boldness to brush the back of his knuckles over Bruce’s scent glands, recently marked. Bruce’s eyes fluttered closed at the combination of the caress and the smell of safety wafting around them. Never before had he been near another rutting alpha and described the scent as safe. “I want you,” the man murmured. Bruce let out a sigh and found himself tilting his head to the side, a mimic of his earlier display, only this time, he wasn’t forcing every instinct back. His muscles felt loose and pliant, and the contact felt so good. 

Contrast to the easy relaxation, Clark inhaled sharply at the vulnerability. His fingers stilled for a long second, waiting for Bruce to pull away or react in aggression. When he failed to do anything else besides half-open his eyes, Clark pulled slightly along the neck of Bruce’s shirt, following the seam and letting his knuckles glide along his collar bone. “May we can go to the bedroom?” Clark suggested, somehow making it sheepish even as his eyes were glued to Bruce’s throat. 

“Alright,” Bruce murmured carefully. “But you’re not carrying me.”

Bruce still stunk from the night before and made an impulse decision when they reached the bedroom, Clark floating alongside Bruce as he plodded up a spiral staircase, that he needed to shower before they do whatever it is that they were going to do. He grabbed a towel and told Clark just that, the other man standing awkwardly at the doorway. 

The warm water helped, and Bruce scrubbed away the grime and sweat of his fight with Ivy and his fever breaking. He tried to keep his arm dry, practiced at working around injuries. It was harder to keep his mind occupied and away from the thoughts of Clark sitting in his bedroom. 

He briefly considered shaving before deciding it would be cruel and slipped into his soft black sweats before coming back into the room. Sitting on the bed with his head in his hands was Clark, looking like he was just handed a life prison sentence. He didn’t look up when Bruce slipped in, and his head snapped up at the sound of the door clicking closed. His face was flush, eyes dilated. And, oh. Bruce could smell him now. Really smell him, not just small linger whiffs. His heart rate skyrocketed in an instant, and he had to press his fingertips to the wall to steady himself, briefly reminded of when Clark had walked into his hotel room that very first night. On instinct, he reigned in his own scent. It was overwhelming in a way he’d never experienced before, and his chest tightened. Clark shot to his feet, a low growl rumbling from somewhere deep, and for the first time in a long time, Bruce realized he was afraid. Not specifically at Clark, the sound cut off as soon as it began, but of how intensely his body was reacting. He felt the need to close his eyes, to take a steadying breath, but with Clark not 6 feet away from him, every muscle cut and tense, it was impossible to do so. 

“Back off,” Bruce warned. He shifted his stance slightly in preparation of a possible advance, though logically, it would have done no good against the man of steel. It ended up being unnecessary though. Clark immediately realized he was projecting aggression, and took several steps back, like he was the one retreating. His calf hit the corner of the bed and he stumbled backward in a moment of uncharacteristic clumsiness. 

“I’m sorry,” he rushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. You just startled me and, god Bruce, you-” Clark covered his face again with both his hands, and Bruce tried to ground himself. “I want to smell you. Please, I need to. I’m sorry. I just-”

“It’s okay.” It’s okay. He’d been surprised by the overwhelming markings of another alpha in his space, but it was just Clark. Clark was….not harmless, but so unwilling to harm. Coaxing his body back under control, Bruce rolled his shoulder and let his own scent out. Clark made a small noise, a whisper of a groan. He stayed rock still, though. Strong desire flooded every corner, but Clark looked the picture of misery, and Bruce felt a pang of regret. “It’s okay,” he murmured again, taking a chance and approaching the bed. Clark looked back up at him, folding his arms tightly over his chest, hands balled up in fists as if to hold himself back. His mouth turned down, unhappily, but his eyes were trained on Bruce as he climbed onto the bed. 

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce shook his head in slight confusion and smoothed the covers next to him, inviting the other man to join him. “It’s alright, Clark. You’re okay. You just startled me. Stop looking like a kicked mutt and get over here.” Slowly, slowly, Clark came over to the bed. Sat on the edge, turned to the side. His hands twisted into themselves in a habit that Clark seems to do all the time, and yet not something Bruce has ever seen Superman do. Anxiety simmered below the aroma of the rut. Bruce sighed and shuffled towards him. When Clark still didn’t look, he placed his hands on those broad shoulders. Borrowing a move from Catwoman when Bruce himself couldn’t be calmed, he ran his hands along Clark's edges, smoothing down his shoulders and thick arms and then back up again. He leaned in and nosed along the back of his neck. 

Clark inhaled through his nose, and his head fell forward, inviting Bruce to that sensitive, vulnerable spot. He ran his lips along the line of Clark’s spine and squeezed his arms, feeling the stability there. “We can take it slow, Clark.”

Clark nodded slightly. “I’ve never-” He exhaled in a shaky breath as Bruce nosed along the tendons roping his neck down to the joint of his shoulder. Here, where he’d marked Clark so long ago, once again bared for the taking. Now, he didn’t touch, and only skimmed his mouth over soft skin. 

“Never? My my, Kent, virtuous indeed.”

Clark chuckled lightly. “I didn’t finish.”

Bruce rubbed his cheek lightly along Clark’s hairline, pressing his lips to the delicate place right behind Clark’s ear. “Well, we’ll make sure that you do this time.” he murmured. 

Clark turned his head to look at Bruce, so close their noses almost bumped. Bruce pressed his lips together, watching the other man give a soft smile. “You’re rather annoying when you get to talking,” Clark whispered. And then, as if to shut him up, tilted his jaw up to kiss him. It was hot and dry, and Bruce’s hands stilled, gripping onto wide shoulders to steady himself. At first, there was no movement. And then Clark pulled back ever so slightly to dip in again, twisting towards Bruce to bring one hand up and cup his cheek.

It was, by far, the most tender kiss Bruce has ever received. He hadn’t even been aware that kisses could feel like this. Clark’s jaw moved slow and languid, setting the pace and letting Bruce melt into it. When it broke, Bruce was practically spinning. Clark’s absentmindedly traces the shell of his ear, and the sensation was so exquisite, Bruce was finding it hard not to squirm. Clark’s eyes skimmed over his face, and Bruce thought he was going to say something, but instead, he turned into him and pressed him backward. Bruce slid fully onto the bed, laying back and supporting himself with one arm. Clark followed closely behind, one hand landing on his hip and sliding upwards, rucking up his shirt and searing his way along Bruce’s side. His hand was big and warm and rough, and it made Bruce’s stomach hot. 

Clark wasn’t smiling anymore. He laid lightly over him on his uninjured side and raking his eyes over Bruce’s form, following his fingertips and they danced over his ribs. Bruce had never been ticklish, but he gasped at the touch and twisted into Clark’s body. Clark took the chance to dip his head in and kiss along Bruce’s jawline. As he relaxed back into the bed, Clark moved lower. Bruce sighed as Clark parted his lips and he felt the first shock of wetness travel down his neck, hypersensitive. He grabbed Clark’s shirt for stability and found it increasingly difficult to hold back all the pliant sounds as Clark sucked at patches of skin. 

Working his way down, Bruce tensed as Clark’s mouth drew near his shoulder. He paused to review his work, no doubt leaving a light trail of bruises, then nosed behind Bruce’s ear only for his breath to fan over moist skin, and Bruce’s stomach tightened. Clark hummed in appreciation. “I like you like this, Bruce,” he mused, lowering his head again to breathe lightly over his scent glands. Bruce’s mind tried desperately to think of a snappy response, but it was as if he’d been hypnotized, and the way Clark’s body tucked snugly into his was making his brain unable to corporate. Hell, all they’d done so far was some light necking, and Clark already had him on the ropes. 

So instead, he pulled Clark into a kiss, one decidedly less tender than their one before. Bruce swiped his tongue along Clark’s lip, and the other man opened easily for him. This time, Bruce took pace, and they lapped messily at each other for a while, Clark’s thumb still brushing lazily over Bruce’s neck. Bruce, at a strategic disadvantage due to one arm blocked off by Clark’s body and the other too painful to move, turned into Clark and hooked one leg over lean hips and pulled in. Their bodies fit flush together, and Bruce rolled his hips, pressing into a hardness obvious under the flannel pants Bruce had given him. Clark broke the kiss in a gasp, leaning down and keeping their foreheads together. 

“I’ve never been with a man,” Clark rushed. Bruce parted his eyes, but Clark was too close to see properly. “Not an alpha either.” 

Bruce hummed, taking in this information, but his hips continued their slow rolling motion, and Clark’s hand pressed down into Bruce’s chest and into his ribs. “So vanilla,” Bruce teased. 

“Have you-ah-done this before?”

“With a man or with an alpha?” Clark ducked his head into Bruce’s neck and grabbed his hip, pressing them together yet effectively stilling him. Bruce bit his lip in a smile.

“Alpha.”

“No, not with another alpha.”

“And with a man?”

Bruce wiggled his good arm out from under Clark and thread it through black hair. “You sure you want to ask about that now?”

“No.”

Bruce kissed his temple, and Clark peeked his head out. It was so strange, this new dynamic between them. Something affectionate had always lingered below the surface. Now, as Clark peered at him from under short thick lashes, Bruce found that something complex was blooming behind his lungs. “I’m not exactly sure how all of this works with an alpha,” he admitted.

“I thought you were supposed to be prepared for any possible outcome.”

Bruce twirled spools of hair around his fingers. “I didn’t realize this was a possible outcome.” 

Clark smiled, somewhere between soft and dangerous. “I guess we’ll figure it out then. Together.”

Bruce cringed. “That was quite terrible.”

Clark grinned. “At yet you’re still in bed with me.”

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Always was a sucker for blue eyes, I guess.”


End file.
